Befitting
by Eupa
Summary: Although Watson allows Holmes to train him in deduction, he fails to use these skills when they would be most appreciated. The blossoming of Shwatsonlock under the watchful eye of Mrs Hudson. Let it be remembered that not all landladies are gossips.
1. The Frustrating Doctor Watson

**Watson**

"I'm sorry Holmes?"

Still apparently intent upon his experiment- that chemistry set has certainly caused a great deal of havoc in the years of our acquaintance- Holmes beckons me from my seat with one finger. My paper is placed carefully to one side, and I approach with caution, not, in my opinion, utterly unprovoked.

"Now Watson, if you will just hold this vial over the flame..."

I do so, and he performs some complex feat of juggling with several other solutions that vary in shade. It is with some difficulty that I fix my attention sternly upon the vial in my hand, hovering a decent distance above the flame to avoid searing my palm. I have never been asked to participate in Holmes' experiments before, and my previous joys seem to pale in comparison as the tenderness of such a gesture occurs to me. Without really noticing, I am mesmerised by my companion's pale hands, darting with unerring accuracy from glass to glass, his fingers cushioning each as though it were a gem and yet returning them with a speed that rivals that of his mind.

"Watson, do attend to that vial." His voice is not stern, nor is it reproachful. If anything, it is amused. I am startled from my unabashed staring at his slim white fingers and dark hair that catches and devours sunlight with barely a glint, and the slight ink stain on his left shirtsleeve, pulled up to just below his elbow. Obviously, such things do not vanish from my thoughts easily- it would appear that they are branded there by some sort of iron.

Noting that it is liable to boil over, I adjust the height to cool it slightly, and notice Holmes' slight nod of satisfaction out of the corner of my right eye. It's alarming how observant my right eye can be, when it comes to Holmes' hair venturing across his forehead, dangling towards his eyes and hovering around his stern grey orbs, or the sunlight from the window at our backs striking a golden chord across the dark surface of his head- such thoughts are not suitable to put down on paper, but I cannot stop my own mental journal. It seems to be filled with such things.

Even as I tilt the vial to swirl the contents briefly, my mind summons memories of my dearest friend, smiling or violently barking his amusement, his quips at Lestrade or the sound that I sometimes hear beneath the obvious noise of his beautiful violin- the sound of trained footsteps cutting a path from one end of the room to the other, or the slight flop of his hair as he turns abruptly, like a hound on the trail of a fox.

I learnt a seemingly ludicrous time ago to stop pretending I wasn't thinking of such. That when I looked at my friend, I did not see a collection of gestures, words and characteristics which somehow built him up into a mysteriously beauteous creature. His mechanical disdain for emotions, I sometimes exaggerate, though not intentionally. It is at times when he does such things that I fear most for him, and for me. Purely selfish, of course.

My musings are interrupted as all colour abruptly vanishes from the solution. I start, unintentionally, and Holmes glances across.

"Excellent Watson. Excellent."

I attempt to offer it to him, but it slides right to the tips of my fingers, and I desperately bring another hand up to try and catch it. Familiar slim digits remove the vial from my palm and Holmes chuckles as he continues whatever it is he's doing. "Whatever is troubling you Watson? You seem most distracted."

I can't tell him.

He is a machine and I am oversensitive; these things are not to be risked lightly.

I shrug it off, mutter something about being tired, and divert it with a question about his experiment.

**Holmes**

Doctor John Watson is the most frustrating man I have ever met.

Of course, normally that sentence would never cross my mind. He is my dearest friend, colleague, doctor, although the latter is occasionally troublesome. But at present, I consider him incredibly frustrating.

I am, as anyone would know, rather observant. In fact, I am legendarily so. There's no point denying it, and why would I? I notice if my friend stares at my hands, my hair and my general appearance more than would be expected. I might have put it down to the experiment, and watching with curiosity, but instead he watches with a very queer expression on his face.

It is some mixture of sorrow and stern self-control, and frankly, I'm not sure what other conclusion I can draw. He watches me as I watch him. There is one significant difference- he does not see me watch him. Watson reading the paper is a sight I observe with particular regard on a daily basis. Yet, he does not catch my fixation. He watches me, but does not read my answer in the lines drawn by my words or gestures. I am not a blunt man, and I find it nigh impossible to just break down and confess. I am almost certain in my inferences, but I fall at the final test of expression, as others can understand it.

He _sees_ my invitations to dinner; he does not _observe_ the reasons why.

He _hears_ my violin concertos; he does not _realise_ why I play at all!

He _obeys_ my warnings without question; he fails to _understand_ the concerns always hiding in my eyes.

He _allows_ me to try and train him in deduction; he fails to _use_ it on the conundrum he often studies.

What else can be concluded but that Doctor Watson is the most frustrating man in the world?

"So, how many lives will this latest discovery save?" Only Watson could ask such a thing without a shred of irony.

I flick my wrist, sending the contents of the tube in my left hand slipping into the right, switching a new vial into the first hand whilst twirling the other airily, mixing the chemicals.

I should stress that I perform my experiments in such a fashion purely as a result of Watson's fixation.

I am not, as has been previously said, "showing off".

Left into right, now switch with the second, hover over flame, pass back, swirl gently, mix into larger tube, add cork, shake well, preparing beaker of water for dilution with other hand, cast out the bung with a thumb, combine solution, pass remaining three additions amongst hands in an interlocking pattern, end with a flourish and flick of the wrist...

He seems to have forgotten to look away.

A small smirk tugs at the corners of my mouth, and who am I to stop it?

**Mrs Hudson**

Collecting the tea-tray is usually a hazardous activity, but the chink of beakers hints at a chemistry experiment, and it is always best to avoid being caught in the aftermath of one of those.

Ghastly, smelly things most of the time.

Returning the tea set to the tray, I manage to avoid looking around at the state of the rooms. I don't mean to fret, I'm sure, but...

There _are_ limits.

There was a parrot in here last week. Fancy that! A parrot, indeed! And the week before there was a hideous yellow fog, those curtains wouldn't clean for three days, and the carpet by the window is _quite_ discoloured...

I suppose it oughtn't to bother me by now.

"Watson, do pay attention to your left sleeve. It seems to be attempting suicide."

The poor doctor seems startled out of his skin, and he hauls his hand away from the flame as though already burned. He does get so engrossed in Mr Holmes' experiments...

But if I didn't know better, what with him being a medical man...Well, I'd suspect that flush on his cheeks was less to do with the Bunsen and- no.

Not all landladies are gossips.


	2. The Remarkable Doctor Watson

_**A/N: Thrown together in a brief moment of peace between moving house and doing some exams, so sorry for the brevity of the thing. Oh, and sorry for the amount of suspense I am going to endeavour to throw at you. Actually, I take that back. It's rather fun, I'm afraid.**_

**Holmes**

However bizarre it may seem, waking up in my own bed is not a common occurrence.

This is not for reasons which might be imagined, but rather because I do not often lie down to sleep the night through, with the intention of being thus incapacitated for some eight hours or more.

The night is when my prey, the common criminal, best plies his trade.

And in a city such as this, when is night ever dark? Beneath the fringes of propriety, there is a great deal more that one such as I may observe.

Nevertheless, on this occasion, I wake in my own bed. And I feel suspiciously well-rested, excessively so, even.

Last night, I was presented with a celebratory meal in honour of a trifling case, wrongly celebratory, as my quarry did escape _my_ justice. However, Watson is determined that is remains a success. No doubt it would ruin my infallibility else.

I suspect it had rather more to do with his wish for an opportunity to try out his most recent and disastrous tea purchase. Full of flavour; I cannot fault him on that score. But the custom of drinking it all almost at once seemed moronic at best.

I humoured him, although the man who sold him this pathetic excuse for tea was clearly ill-educated in every respect.

A glass of water has been left on my bedside table, and I take a few sips from it; the whole business of one's mouth drying up overnight is inconvenient at best. A bitter taste pools in my mouth.

**Watson**

"Watson!"

I do not move from behind my paper, one leg tucked over the other and window at my back. "Good afternoon, Holmes."

I can feel his fury boiling from across the room. The footsteps across to my chair are abrasive in their ferocity, and my newspaper is unfairly swept to the floor by the currents of his anger, seeming to shake the internal air into patterns of his own design.

"You drugged me." A statement of fact, but reinforced by steely tones. I hadn't imagined that it would take him very long to notice.

"A mild sedative."

"It is-" He glances around for a clock, and I leap upon the chance to interrupt his fury.

"Half past four."

"Half past four?" He takes a shuddering breath, towering over me, his paleness merely intensified by the harsh sunlight dripping slowly through the windowpane. "You put me to sleep for nearly eighteen hours!"

"And you look very well-rested indeed, my dear Holmes." I summon a smile to my face, but I fear it becomes a smirk. I _am_ perhaps a little smug that my little plan worked, but I am far more pleased that my friend is starting to look less like a walking corpse. Of course, the flush on his cheeks is anger, but the bags under his eyes have downsized from hammocks to handbags, which is a move in the right direction.

"What of my cases, Watson?"

"Nobody has called. Had they done so, I would have woken you."

"You sedated me." He repeats the allegation, seemingly livid at my lack of denial.

"That would have worn off halfway through last night." I sigh and meet his gaze, rising to my own feet and adopting my no-nonsense-I'm-a-doctor expression. Of course, it never makes Holmes treat my opinion with even a shred of respect on the subject of his health, but it's the principle. "Accept it Holmes, you were overtired."

And with that, I proceed to collect my newspaper and settle back into my chair.

"Watson." For a rather atypical endearment, as I think of it, it is presently lacking a sense of affection.

"Yes Holmes?" I stick my pipe between my teeth and move to light it, distracting myself from his fury and the pain it evokes through menial actions. I must also admit to some mild cowardice; it is also a device to avoid meeting his gaze.

"I do not require a nursemaid."

The words scald my heart, blazing a trail of pain across the surface and subsiding into a dull ache that longs to be cooled. A short, sharp shock.

And one I must overcome.

**Holmes**

"You do, however, require sleep. Accept it Holmes, you are a human being and must suffer the necessities like any of us."

He makes an admirable recovery, but I can see that I have quite shaken him.

I usually feel better, having startled someone towards submission, but all I can see are the lines of hurt on his face, and all I can hear are the desperate urgings of my own mind to retract the words. He means well, of course. I am aware of that. But I do not need his help. I do not need _help._ I am Sherlock Holmes.

"The body is merely an agent of the mind."

Sedating me is a betrayal, even if it's for the best. I cannot permit him to do that again. What if the case of a lifetime came along? Or I was urgently needed somewhere else? Or Watson was in danger?

The last one, perhaps, is most chilling.

Of course, he doesn't see _why_ his offence is so great.

...Is that my fault?

**Watson**

In other men, anger freezing is visible as the rush of colour fades, the breathing slows, the shoulders drop or a million other signs.

In my friend, his eyes blunt their gaze. An imperceptible change, except to the one who feels the scalding tongue uncoil itself from one's ribcage.

He turns away, his dressing gown whipping about behind him. "You must never do that again, Watson."

I remove my pipe, only realising at that moment how tightly my teeth have been digging into the stem. "Then you must never give me cause to do it again, Holmes."

I don't have time to process the fact that he has turned around and grabbed me by the shoulders, bending over me and staring at me with a slight chink in his expression, not that I can make anything of it. 'Tis as a small pebble rolling from the entrance to a cave. One can, perhaps, notice its absence, but one can make nothing of what lies beyond it.

"Never, Watson." It is the closest to a threat he has ever said to me.

I am no longer convinced that I am a warm-blooded creature.

**Holmes**

That. Damnable. Expression.

You'd think I had pulled a gun out and ransomed his entire family! Or that I had killed the entire population of small cats and dogs with which the population appears to be universally enamoured.

How can I explain reasoning to an expression like that? An expression so brazenly, blatantly emotional?

And then he does something quite remarkable.

"_I_ do not require a watchdog."

I have not removed my hands from his shoulders, and I can only freeze my expression, an unprompted reaction to Watson's newfound psychic abilities.

I am not accustomed to people being able to read me.

"Ah, Mrs Hudson." He makes no move to escape my grip, but smiles at her over my shoulder. My arms drop of their own accord, but I proceed to disregard their conversation as I study my reflection in the window pane. Has it somehow broken into an emotional grimace? It does not appear to be so...

"A case, Holmes."

Those are words which will always permeate. Degrees of expression will have to wait.


	3. The Flabbergasted Doctor Watson

_**A/N: Sorry. I have no defence prepared, as none will do.**_

**Watson**

"Watson, do shut that window."

"Just a minute, Holmes."

The glare of gas lamps and the thick, choking smoke of London completely obscure the stars. I had expected that they would, but it is, I admit, a slight blow. As usual, I am forced to concede defeat to both the forces of nature and Holmes (the latter being by far the stronger pull, with the force of a dashing hansom cab whilst nature indulges in a far gentler bicycle) by ducking my head back into the room. I must remember to have some words on the subject of nocturnal airs with Simons; he has been deeming them a cure to all sorts of things. Complete balderdash, of course.

I cannot see Holmes' face, hidden as it is behind the agony columns of some newspaper or other, but there is a richness to his voice which hints at amusement.

"See anything interesting?"

"As you expected, no."

"It appears that star-gazing is a country-dweller's pastime." This time, there is no mistaking the entertainment in his voice. He does not laugh maliciously, but it is clear that he finds the entire notion of observing stars to be absurd at best.

Unperturbed, I take my customary seat opposite my friend and begin to clear out my pipe, a mechanism which often helps me to fend off Holmes' questions and calm my own twitching mind. Twitching is not quite the right word for it, but it seems to leap about my head like some mad jack-rabbit, forever drifting towards the fanciful, with sidewards glances of self-pity and wistful thinking. "It is not an idle practice; it has excellent navigational applications."

"My dear Watson, you do not sail. I fail to see why you should need to rely on the stars when a map should do just as well."

"They have yet to invent a map which is clearly visible at night, Holmes."

"In a night so dark that you cannot even see a map, it would be inadvisable to wander around whether or not the stars had bestowed their infinite directional wisdom upon you, unless they can also locate obstacles. I fear you would be setting a poor example as a medical man by injuring yourself through such a foolhardy plan."

I click my tongue in a half-hearted fashion, feigning exasperation, but must privately agree that he has won that argument. "Seasonal changes, then."

"You are not a farmer."

"I could be a farmer."

A violent bark of laughter can be heard from behind the paper, and he folds it abruptly in half, mirth still glowing on his face, trickling through the corners of his eyes, down the ridges and reappearing ever so faintly in his cheekbones as puddles of violent beguilement...

"My dear, dear Watson, on the day that _you_ rise at dawn, I fear your agricultural skills will flounder under plagues of locusts and raindrops of blood."

I can't help chuckling with him; when he does display emotion, it is too intense to avoid participating in. In the fires of volcanoes, even forests must blaze. "Very well Holmes. There is no reason for me to be interested in the stars. Yet I am."

I fully expect remarks about cluttering my mind with useless piffle, but his expression becomes quite blank for a moment, and the next he is leaning back in his chair, fingers steepled and fervent gaze fixed upon me.

As the flame of gas light set ablaze by the swift poke of a torch, a flush creeps up the back of my neck; the urge to adjust my collar follows close on its heels- it would be far too conspicuous and I ignore it accordingly.

"Explain."

My mind which had, I am ashamed to say, been largely distracted by the feeling of total vulnerability which Holmes' gaze inspires, hastily snapped back to the demand.

"Explain what?"

My friend makes a sweeping gesture ceiling-ward with one hand, returning it to its steepled position without ever shifting his gaze. "The cosmos, the heavens, the stars."

I am flabbergasted by his interest. Was this not the same man who dismissed all interest in cricket after determining the type of wound left by a blow of the bat on a human skull? It is unthinkable that he should care to clutter his mind with details of the heavens he will never need for a case. "But it has no practical application-"

A smirk is the response and even the words seem to chuckle snidely at my sluggishness as they wash over me. "I quite agree. But you appear greatly attached to them- would that I knew why."

"I- Well, it's just interesting, that's all. I'm not an expert."

"You wouldn't admit it even if you were-" I open my mouth to interrupt, but he silences me with a slight shake of his head. "But rest assured, in this case I have no reason to doubt your claim."

A backhanded insult? His grin leaves me quite unable to determine that for certain and I shrug it off as not worth deliberating further. When in a room with a genius, insults to my intelligence are merely comparisons.

Or so I tell myself.

**Mrs Hudson**

I cannot imagine what time the messenger boy thinks it is; I make it almost ten o'clock and far too late for any such errand, but living with a lodger like Mr Holmes, it is to be expected.

Dear me, I do hope it is not _too_ dangerous. Mr Holmes dying for the first time was quite enough for anybody, thank you very much.

I make no effort to be undetected, I'm sure, but Doctor Watson is talking animatedly about something, and is making all manner of expansive gestures, so I suppose I'm not so conspicuous.

Whilst the dear Doctor is animated, Mr Holmes is as still as I have seen him. I should feel quite transparent under such a gaze, but the good doctor is made of sterner stuff. I often wonder that he isn't stronger than his friend in some respects. And such a contrast! I still don't fully understand how they can ever live together half so well as they do- but then I cannot picture them apart. No doubt that is the fault of habit.

I don't mean to overhear, mind you, but it'd be a shame to interrupt him; it's so often Mr Holmes who does the explaining. Makes quite a change.

"And then, my dear Holmes, you can locate the North Star by the placement of the Plough, and something about the handle- wait, I'll remember presently-"

Bless his heart, but it's for nought. I doubt Mr Holmes has heard a word he's said.

Strange, he doesn't care a fig for astronomy, or at least, not usually. Quite a wonder that he's listening now...

"As loathe as I am to interrupt, my dear Watson, our inestimable landlady has materialised, and as no purpose other than a message will serve to excuse her presence, let us hope we are not disappointed."

He turns towards me, his expression that which is most familiar to me. Affecting the tone of a lord and banishing me with a sweep of his hand- his airs are meant in jest, I think, but he, like a child, needs acknowledgement.

Therefore, it is with a noise of indignation that I hand over the infernal message and return to the stairwell.

I cannot imagine why I bother.


	4. The Unresponsive Doctor Watson

_**Holmes**_

It has often been a matter of comment between us that my Watson is extremely averse to being woken up before his allotted breakfast hour. I suppose it may well be true, that an army marches on its stomach; Watson certainly seems to take that as gospel. What has hitherto not been so emphasised is his unparalleled talent for falling asleep.

Not to mention his timing.

It is quite remarkable, and I intend to remark upon it a great deal.

We had been engaged in pleasant conversation before the fire, each in our favoured arm chairs. Watson had finally set aside that ghastly yellow-backed novel upon which he is presently fixated; between that and the current news stories, I fail to see how he has any space left in his head for facts! Our conversation had been, thus far, on the topic of this season's events at the opera, theatre etc. Naturally, very little of it is worth a visit, but, as with criminal enterprise, there are the occasional nuggets of interest.

Over the years of our acquaintance, I have honed my ability to detect when Watson is on the brink of conceding to fatigue. The signs are rather clear, and distraction seems by far the best cure. It may be selfish of me to deprive my friend of a few hours' sleep for the sake of his continued society, but I have never claimed to be selfless.

Accordingly, I offered him a violin performance; I guard myself against the arguments of self-indulgence with the knowledge that he enjoys my playing greatly. Of course, the element of the theatrical also appeals. Strained facial expressions are typical of violin players, and quite useful for the gentle easing of emotions. Particularly amongst those of us for whom reticence is second nature.

"I should like nothing better, my dear Holmes."

I should think he was simply indulging me, but the honesty in his expression makes him one of the easiest men to trust. Inherent goodness, perhaps, is overstating and romanticising the quality, and I shrink from the description. Both hyperbole and understatement are deplorable to rationality and clear judgement.

However, my plan was somewhat thwarted by an unexpected development.

In the few minutes it took to locate the blasted instrument - a particularly exciting case earlier this week has left a certain degree of debris in its wake – the man had succumbed to sleep. I very much doubt I should have much luck waking him if I tried.

This is, I admit, a mild inconvenience.

Whilst waking him is not a viable option; that strikes me as highly self-indulgent, unsuitable and liable to irritate the poor fellow, nevertheless...

The show must go on!

_**Mrs Hudson**_

As landlady to Mr Sherlock Holmes, I am accustomed to all manner of peculiarities of time and habit, and a great deal of inconvenience, to be fair. I do not lament it too strongly but there we are. He is, at times, loud, brash, inconsiderate, liable to change his plans at a moment's notice- never mind my lamb casserole – not to mention the undesirable visitors! One would think- well.

But I must not complain too much.

One of the benefits to having Mr Holmes as a tenant is his violin. Even if he does tend to play it at highly inappropriate times- didn't I have Mr Howitt from next door round last month to demand some peace?

Of course, it being three in the morning didn't seem to have occurred to Mr Holmes.

Anyway, for the most part, he is a very talented musician. At least, I am disposed to think so.

Not that I would ever admit that; he is far too sure of himself as it is, if you ask me.

In the time I've known him, he's played all manner of musical pieces, from the various composers that are, well, about at the moment. If he and the good doctor go to a concert, I'm sure we never hear the end of the songs being performed, over and over. I found myself humming one in the butchers once, and didn't I get asked what I thought of Stravinsky's I-don't-know-what? How ignorant I felt! Poor man looked frightfully disappointed, don't you know.

Anyway, Mr Holmes has even developed the habit of playing some of his own invention! As if chemistry and detection wasn't enough for the man!

Tonight seems to be a particularly interesting piece, and I suppose it's one of those last. I don't believe I've heard it before, though I am not particularly familiar with the modern composers. Far too busy for that kind of thing. I much prefer the theatre, all in all.

It's not the kind of melody I expect, however. Usually, the music is stately or refined, maybe melancholy or bouncing around the instrument like I don't know what.

This is much more like a- no, not a jig. Nowhere near a jig; it's far too slow for that. Like a lullaby? Nearer, but more solemn, perhaps? The kind of tune that brings to mind roving woodland and delicate blossoms, perhaps at daybreak, some kind of mysterious world half out of reach-

But I'm sure I don't know what I'm talking about.

For the sake of broadening one's musical awareness, a trip to the landing may be necessary. I have been meaning to water that neglected plant in any case...

Mr Holmes may object to its removal, but I've yet to see him properly tend to it! Plants cannot survive on love alone!

Not that- it seems strange to say that Mr Holmes_ loves_ anything.

Whatever it is, it's a lovely tune. Rather low and soft, like- you would think me quite the Romantic- footfalls in the snow or some such. You know, muffled. Muffled and somehow sweet.

Never mind.

Indeed, Mr Holmes seems to be taking pains to avoid making noise or sudden movements of any sort- whatever can the matter be, I wonder...

The good Doctor's certainly being very quiet.

I do hope they haven't quarrelled. It's like having children in the house again- sulking, storming in and out of rooms... Far too tiring for a woman at my time of life.

Oh, bless his heart- he's asleep. I shouldn't wonder he's not getting a bit cold; the fire has almost petered out.

Mr Holmes has a habit of shutting his eyes, the better to get caught up in the music I suppose. But they don't half fly open quickly as the small jug of water connects with the pot of his blessed but malnourished plant.

Such an unfathomable gaze; I don't know what to make of it, I'm sure.

His eyes are so cold on occasion. Maybe it's just the colouring, or my own imagination, but I often fancy that they don't hold any life at all. At least, nothing he'll let the world see.

Surprise is there, but what else, I'm sure I don't know.

The violin falls from his chin almost immediately; anyone would think he'd been caught in an act of childish impudence, or even thieving! What he can mean by it, I wonder.

But then, I'm sure it's none of my business.

I can tell when my absence is wanted and move to leave, wiping the wet lip of the can on my apron. The plant should be all set for the next three days or so. The amount of care Mr Holmes shows for it and I sometimes wonder if it isn't all some experiment he's working on. He gets so frightfully protective of those, after all.

Now, as I turn to go, I catch sight of something...odd.

Not that it'd be odd in of itself, mind you, but for Mr Holmes...

He was evidently on the brink of departing, though why my brief appearance should make him embarrassed, I don't know. Then he pauses, hesitating after a step, and swipes a blanket from the back of the sofa, draping it over his friend with a tenderness I never see him exhibit.

This is no brief, abrupt gesture, as I am so used to from him. It is a careful, methodical and caring tucking in- there is no other word for it! He tucks in the corners, leaving the doctor resting peacefully, cushion under his head and half-sprawled on the chair, but fully covered in a warm blanket.

I don't linger to look, despite my curiosity- natural, given the circumstances, I believe – as I'm not sure he wants that side of him to be seen.

Even as I descend the stairs again, I hear the soft creak of his bow strings, striking up the tune once more.

What can one make of it all?

Nothing, I'm sure.

_**A/N: Yes, I'm being fairly restrained with regard to Holmes and Watson POVs, but I'm rather enjoying the sideways glance approach of Mrs Hudson at present; hope you are too!**_


	5. Dear Doctor Watson

_**I cannot deem this long delay  
acceptable in any way;  
I can but hope to recompense  
by further twisting of suspense. **_

_**Yours sincerely, **_

_**Eupa.**_

**Holmes**

"I assure you Bradstreet that it is quite _unthinkable_ that I should leave the flat this morning!"

With a flourish of my wrist, I make it amply clear that discussion has been curtailed. I do not take kindly to being summoned, as Lestrade is _very_ well aware. It's not that I have anything against Bradstreet – indeed, he has more to recommend him than most, which is no great feat – but surely even Lestrade can solve the murder of a serial adulterer?

And they wonder that I have so little faith in our exalted police force.

More important is my experiment; I am evaluating the torsion of ropes in various solutions and it is of the utmost importance that I am present to observe the results! Unfortunately, I have been unable to locate additional sulphur for the third sample, to finalise the cocktail of chemical by-products. How uncommonly frustrating.

"Watson? Watson!"

Bradstreet is _still_ talking, but it is a simple matter to tune out his urgent tones, particularly when focusing instead upon my Boswell.

**Mrs Hudson**

Oh, what a racket!

First there was that nice Inspector Bradstreet rushing up to fetch Mr Holmes – such a lovely man, even apologising for his haste – and then what a to-do; Mr Holmes refusing to go because of his some experiment or other and calling the good doctor back when he needed to be out on his rounds ten minutes since! It was all about some chemical he needed; why he has to have an interest that smells and smokes quite so fervently I'm sure I can't imagine.

The Inspector didn't look too pleased as the Doctor came down with him, and I thought I'd best leave it a half-hour before I went to collect the breakfast tray. I don't much care to be around Mr Holmes when he's in one of his moods; who would?

So I settled down to start that novel Mrs Pearson had recommended to me and it can't have been more than ten minutes before I hear the front door open again and bless me if it isn't the Doctor.

"Did you forget something, Doctor?"

He shakes his head and I'm certain he must have been running; he's so out of breath.

"Would you be so kind as to take this up to Mr Holmes, Mrs Hudson? I hope he finds it a useful addition to his experiments." He hands me a small jar, or is it phial? Chemistry's always been rather beyond my abilities, I'm afraid.

"Of course, but haven't you seen the time? It's nearly a quarter past nine."

His face falls somewhat and he hastily adjusts his hat. "Ah, so it is. I am indebted to you, Mrs Hudson."

I can't help but chuckle at his apologetic smile as he darts back out of the door. It slams shut behind him and I just catch his shouted apology.

Doctor Watson is such a dear gentleman.

Steeling myself, I enter the flat and begin to clear away the breakfast things. "No breakfast again today, Mr Holmes?"

"My dear Mrs Hudson, there are more important things to occupy my mind than _breakfast_!"

"Hmph. I'm not sure Doctor Watson would agree with you there." I gather the used plates back onto the tray as I say this. I've often suspected that Doctor Watson was prompted to eat more by his friend's apparent ingratitude.

"Then we must disagree!" He makes an expansive sweep of his hands, eyes not shifting from the ropes almost lying in state, it seems to me.

"Well, I hope that's not another experiment to endanger my soft furnishings, Mr Holmes."

"I don't see why it should develop such animosity towards them at any point, inestimable landlady." The smirk on his face is clear even in his voice, and it is evident that he deems my soft furnishings as of very low import. He obviously hasn't seen the price of fine cotton these days; wasn't I talking to Mrs Pearson about it only last Monday? I could scarce believe it myself.

"Then I'd appreciate it if it remained thus disposed." I adopt my stern nanny act once again; I can't help it, I'm sure, as a response to Mr Holmes' childishness. Not eating his breakfast, making a ghastly mess – how does he ever find anything? – and his sniping remarks only make him seem the more petulant, if you ask me.

With the tray laden once more with a half-demolished breakfast, I withdraw the small jar from my pocket and hold it out on my palm. "Doctor Watson dropped this off for you." His head flicks round rather like a horse dislodging a fly and he snatches it from my hand almost before I finish speaking. The good Doctor is always so kind; fancy, going to all that effort even though he knew it would make him late for his rounds! Such is his dedication...

I doubt he can see anything but his experiment and the jar at that moment and he sweeps back to the ropes, his scraggy old dressing gown billowing around him like a child trapped in a curtain. I simply must get him a new one for Christmas.

I'm sure I don't know what I'm talking about, but the pattern on that gown is enough to make my old eyes ache. Reminds me of mother's dining room wallpaper.

I retrieve the tray and make to leave as quickly as possible; I certainly have no desire to witness his various catastrophes. They don't bear thinking about. Wasn't there that terrible burn on my wallpaper, of all places, and how two little glasses burnt out my old wardrobe, I shudder to think.

It's as I pull the door shut behind me – it's a wonder we have any furnishings left! – that I hear it.

Well, I may have heard it.

Gratitude, that is.

He may be one of the worst tenants in London, but he is a dear man really.

When it suits him.


End file.
